


Miseinen

by vaguesalvation



Series: People Error [1]
Category: the GazettE
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaguesalvation/pseuds/vaguesalvation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had a problem to solve. (Part of People Error universe)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's As Counting Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> This is one part of the People Error universe, the first that was written, the second chronologically. Also, any chapter titles come from the Gazette's lyrics that were translated by the gazette_lyrics community on LJ.

“Hi… uh… Matsumoto-san, this is Uke Yutaka. I was calling because I heard from a friend of mine that you were in need of a replacement drummer. Well, I’m not with anyone at the moment and I’d love to speak with you about whether or not that position’s still open, maybe set up an audition… uh… yeah… so, you can reach me at…”

The small black phone beeped several times, vibrating against the wooden table annoyingly, but Matsumoto Takanori ignored it, opting to let it ring. He was currently sprawled lazily across the couch in Kouyou and Akira’s living room, his head laying back against one of the arms, fingers rubbing at aching temples. His eyes were closed, concealing his black irises from view, and his dark hair was sticking up in every possible direction. He knew he looked a mess, probably like he hadn’t slept in days. But an assumption such as that would not have badly placed.

The apartment was quiet around him--an oddity considering who lived there--and he was taking the much needed silence to collect his thoughts. However, that was easier said than done. Normally, this place would not be his pick for a “peaceful” afternoon of reflection. Akira was chatty at the quietest of times, exuberant and animated when provoked, and while Kouyou wasn’t nearly as loud as the bassist, he made his share of noise when he was composing new songs.

But when he’d come to the two of them that morning--haggard, exhausted, frustrated--they’d let him in without a word and allowed him to crash unceremoniously onto their couch. Kouyou had then taken the necessary precautions to get Akira out of the house so Takanori could have some peace.

They’d been gone for almost two hours now.

He sighed, turning over onto his side and pulling his knees up to his chest. He could have probably fallen asleep here, as he’d done many times before, but his thoughts were still racing. He’d tried everything to get his brain to stop feeding him old, worn out information, things he didn’t need to be thinking about right now.

He had a problem to solve.

And just as always, the thoughts looped back around to the very thing that had kept him awake for nights on end now, the one thing he couldn’t escape from.

The band.

They were falling apart, slipping between his fingers and falling to the floor like jagged glass shards, just a fragmented reminder of the beautiful thing they could have been if something hadn’t come along to break it. They had been so close this time around, tasting success with the tips of their tongues, grabbing at its hems, trying to coax it into their arms.

But something had gone wrong. So terribly wrong.

He couldn’t--wouldn’t--blame anyone for what had happened, because no one could have truly seen it coming, no matter how much they chided themselves for being blind to the obvious. They had done what they had needed to do, and he honestly believed that.

It was just frustrating now, as they searched for something new to come along, something that could possibly save them.

He had told Kouyou and Akira in all seriousness--he was adamant, making sure they understood--that if Gazette didn’t work out, he was done, through with music completely. He just couldn’t keep putting himself through this. And they had both agreed, because false hope was always followed by the worst kind of disappointment, and the three of them had seen too many opportunities die right in front of them.

Yes, it was frustrating, and Takanori would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about giving up.

When Yune had left them--now almost a month and a half ago--the vocalist had promised his remaining three bandmates that he would find them a new drummer. He had played the instrument at one time so he thought himself more than capable of searching out someone to meet their standards. Yuu had been skeptical from the beginning, but he’d taken the doubts in stride, blaming it on the older man’s still-raw sensitivity to the subject.

He hadn’t told Yuu he had had his doubts as well, that his persistent pessimism would never let him fully believe in himself. But he had been determined.

And so he’d started searching, putting up flyers, talking to any friends he had in the music industry, and for awhile it had seemed to pay off. He had met plenty of potential drummers interested in the position. But their interest in him and his interest in them were two very different things, as it were.

He could still remember Kouyou’s face when they had auditioned a particularly awful man from their apartment complex.

“Maybe he’s just rhythmically challenged.” Akira had said, holding a bandage to his finger, which had started bleeding when he’d tried to play along with the man. Yuu had just laughed and asked if the bassist even knew what he was talking about. Kouyou had slumped against the wall.

Takanori had been mortified.

So they’d tried again, each time coming up short of what they were really looking for. It was only about three weeks ago that they’d decided they better settle for something, if only to get back on their feet and keep practicing.

That was when he’d brought in Sato Daisuke*.

He was pulled from his thoughts abruptly by the sound of the front door opening, the heavy wood swinging almost completely off its hinges and coming to smack against the wall. His eyes snapped open in time to see Kouyou stepping into the apartment, blonde hair fanned out around his angry face as he walked deliberately passed the living room and down the hall to the bathroom, forgetting--or not caring--to slip out of his shoes. The door to the bathroom slammed closed as well, causing his head to throb painfully.

“We went to Yuu’s.”

He turned back to the front of the room, where Akira was leaning against the wall.

“Is that why he’s so upset?” Upset was an understatement, he knew. Kouyou didn’t just get upset; he went from one extreme to the other. Either he was stoic, unconcerned, or he was furious. There was no middle ground with the guitarist. But Kouyou’s anger didn’t make much sense.

“Daisuke called Yuu while we were there.” Akira shrugged, pushing off the wall and walking into the living room. Takanori watched as the bassist settled at the end of the couch, his feet coming up to rest against the coffee table, his arms wrapping around his middle. He took a deep breath before he continued. “He thought it would be a good idea to confide in Yuu about his concerns for the band. He says we’re losing it.”

“He’s right.”

“Yeah, but he said it was Kouyou’s fault.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, he just said that his playing is mediocre and that our bands deserves someone with more talent.”

Takanori rolled his eyes, ”Jesus.”

He sighed sitting up and propping his feet next to Akira’s. The bassist was taller than him when standing, but he noticed now, while they were sitting side by side, that he could see the top of the other man’s head. Akira had a nasty habit of slouching.

“What did Yuu say?”

“Just that he didn’t want to get into the middle of anything. That if he had a problem with Kouyou he should take it up with him before he brings it to the band.” The bassist inhaled deeply, sighing in what he thought to be defeat. “Kouyou is uh, pretty pissed off.”

“And he bitched the whole way back.”

“Yup.”

“Well, we’re just a bundle of maturity, aren’t we?”

Akira chuckled at his statement, uncrossing his arms and looking up at the vocalist. Takanori tried his best to smile at the man, tried not to frown at the empty sadness he could still see lingering in the blonde’s eyes. It was something he’d come to associate with Akira as of late, and that thought angered him. He knew it was too soon to talk about everything that had happened, to the band, to their relationship, to the bassist in particular. But he couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he should say something, anything, to the man sitting beside him now.

The noise of the bathroom door slamming open again crashed though the room, interrupting the vocalist’s thoughts for the second time that morning. The blonde guitarist stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes blazing, seeming to cut straight through Takanori’s skin.

“I quit.”

Both Takanori and Akira sat up in the couch, “What?”

The vocalist resisted the urge to pull at his hair, “You can’t quit.”

“Why?”

“We need a guitarist.”

“You have a guitarist, whose talent is sooo superior.”

“Stop.”

“Then get rid of him.”

“I can’t just fire our drummer, then we won’t have a drummer.”

“You do it.”

“I can’t play and sing at the same time.”

“Then… Akira can sing.”

The bassist’s eyes narrowed, “What… no, I don’t like to sing.”

“Tomorrow. I want him gone tomorrow.” The guitarist continued. “If you don’t call him, I will, and trust me, Taka, you don’t want that to happen. I’d rather see this band fail miserably than work with him again.”

“I’ll call him tonight,” Takanori said, knowing better than to let Kouyou’s anger startle or frighten him. He’d known the guitarist for close to five years now, had witnessed the anger plenty of times before. He knew, also, to try to curb it quickly.

Kouyou turned slowly, his arms falling to his sides, hanging limply for a moment while he looked around his living room. When he turned back to them, it seemed he had found his composure once more.

“I’m leaving,” the guitarist stated.

“Where are you going,” Akira asked curiously.

“I don’t know,” was the reply, “do you want to come?”

The bassist shook his head, slouching even further. Kouyou simply nodded and waved to the both of them, leaving the apartment with less noise than he’d come in.

Takanori was now highly aware of how close he was sitting to Akira. He glanced down, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of the bassist’s eyes, to see if he could read any emotion there. Akira was one of the most expressive people he’d ever met, wearing every emotion on his face clearly. Takanori had wished on more than one occasion that he could be more like that at times, less afraid of the world’s cruelties, able to show people what he felt. It just seemed so easy for the bassist.

When someone was willing to look.

“You okay,” he asked, catching the older man’s attention. Akira’s gaze found his, pensive, but overall trusting.

“Yeah,” was the blonde’s reply, “I just…”

Akira swallowed heavily, his throat moving beneath the tanned skin of his neck. He let his eyes trail to somewhere over Takanori’s shoulder, looking but not seeing. He was lost in thoughts that Takanori knew he’d never fully reveal, in memories that were probably better left quiet.

“I just can’t help thinking that this was all my fault, you know.”

The words hit him like a blow to the stomach and he fought the urge to wince. He shifted, turning more toward the other man to regard him fully. Dyed hair fell limply around the man’s childish face; an oversized t-shirt exposed tanned skin. Dark eyes were desperate.

“Come here,” he said, spreading his arms a little to pull the bassist to him. A blonde head fell to his shoulder and he wrapped himself around the other man. It was a position the two had found themselves in a lot lately. Takanori held Akira close to him, smelling the bassist’s shampoo, enjoying the heat of the blonde against his chest.

“We’re all guilty in this, Aki,” he explained, “we can’t dwell on it, you know?”

Akira nodded against his shoulder, settling further against him, his hand searching for Takanori’s between their legs. The vocalist laced their fingers, his chin resting on the crown of the blonde’s head. He closed his eyes, ignoring the insistent urge to pull the bassist closer, to hold Akira in his arms.

“I should probably get packing again.” The bassist mentioned after a few moments silence.

Takanori looked around the room, taking in the various sized boxes that had been stacked in the corners. Akira had decided about two weeks ago to find his own apartment, to get back on his own feet. After having lived with Kouyou for almost a month, the bassist felt it was time he get his life back together.

With or without the promise of the band.

Akira sat up, and Takanori tried to suppress the emptiness he felt when the blonde pulled away from him.

“Do you want any help,” he asked.

“No,” the older man replied, shaking his head, “I… I kind of want… to be alone for awhile.”

Takanori nodded in understanding, as solitude had always been something he’d enjoyed. Suddenly, the other’s presence was suffocating.

“I’ll go then,” he said, his hands hitting his knees as he stood up from his position on the couch. He stretched his arms over his head, black t-shirt riding up to show a sliver of his pale stomach. “I’ve got to find a new drummer.”

Akira didn’t respond to his comment. He turned to find the man staring at the wall again, lost in thought. His hand reached for a broad shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, smiling when Akira looked up at him, “everything’s going to be fine.”

The bassist nodded, though he could tell the man didn’t really believe. He saw himself out, waving, telling Akira he’d see him later. He knew he couldn’t stay any longer, to risk the older man knowing he didn’t believe in himself either.

On the way down the stairs, toward the parking lot where his car had been resting all morning, his phone vibrated in his hand again.

This time, he did not ignore it.


	2. The Darkness Sinks to the Bottom

The man was attractive, Takanori noted. Yutaka walked through the doors, emerging from the back of the diner. Clean, he thought, taking in dark hair and eyes, skin glowing healthily. While he had become accustomed to heavy stage make-up, hair dye and costumes, the vocalist had grown quite fond of plainness in all its absences. And Yutaka seemed the epitome of simple in the stained, black apron he wore as part of his work uniform.

The brunette walked through the restaurant with confidence, stopping once to speak quietly to one of the female servers. A wide grin spread across his face when she giggled hysterically at whatever he’d said, whispering something back, maybe to join in on an obviously well-received joke or to chide him for the cynical sense of humor Takanori could sense from across the room. The vocalist found himself smiling as well, chuckling around the rim of his coffee cup.

The porcelain burned his hands, stung his lips with the heat from the liquid inside it. It was a nice feeling, one that made his mouth feel swollen, abused, much like the way it felt when he was kissing someone, or when he’d done a whole set and was downing a bottle of water. He swallowed thickly, though the coffee was thin, and it ran down his throat to coat his esophagus in warmth.

When he looked back up, Yutaka had redirected his path, feet carrying the other man to the round, corner table Takanori had occupied. The grin hadn’t completely disappeared, but instead of the friendly familiarity that had been shown to his co-worker, the brunette gazed at him through a cloud of vague confusion. But the vocalist could sense something beyond that haze.

Curiosity.

“Takanori-san,” Yutaka greeted, his voice a bit less cheerful than it had sounded on the phone.

Takanori nodded, an action he used to invite the drummer to sit across from him. He watched as the other man sat hurriedly, his fingers tapping against the tabletop for a moment. It was a nervous habit the two seemed to share, the vocalist noted. He found himself glad that Yutaka seemed anxious, because, while he was able to hide it quite well, he was also a little nervous.

“How did you find me?” Yutaka asked after a few seconds silence.

Takanori had known that question had been coming, was surprised it wasn’t the first thing out of the other man’s mouth. It would have been the first thing he would have said to someone who showed up at his place of employment randomly.

However, Yutaka knew just as well as he did that this was not just a “random” meeting.

“Takashi-kun seems to have more than his fair share of information stored in his mind,” he answered the question, taking another sip of his coffee and watching recognition flicker across Yutaka’s nearly black irises.

“Ah, well… the two of us have known each other for awhile now, so I don’t mind,” was the response.

Takanori’s brow rose at the speed with which Yutaka spoke. He knew, instinctually, that it had more to do with the man’s character than any kind of anxiety.

“But really,” the brunette continued, “It might have been better if you’d called me. I really only have a few minutes for break.”

“I like to see people,” Takanori said simply, happy when his words were received with another easy smile.

Of course, he’d seen Yutaka before, in various music halls, clubs. While he’d never said anything to his bandmates, or the man himself, it’d seemed almost inevitable that they met eventually. He’d noticed the man plenty of times, and he’d known, instantly, that there was something about Yutaka that kept drawing the two of them together.

Beyond the simple exterior, Takanori could plainly sense the presence of something more, something that demanded attention. It was something clearly visible in all the other’s he’d decided to surround himself with. Each individual he’d let himself get to know brought a different energy, but a strong one just the same.

He submerged himself in these kinds of people, stayed in the center of a group that would be forever enigmatic.

And he could tell, by just looking at the man, exchanging pleasantries in a rundown diner, that Yutaka was an enigma in his own right.

They fell into a silence and Takanori finished off the rest of his coffee. When a server came to refill his cup, he waved her off, and she took the mug away with her. His hand reached for the cigarettes on the table. Yutaka pulled an ashtray out from behind the salt shaker at the end of the table, near the window shadowed by dark maroon blinds. He noted how quickly--how customary it seemed--for the brunette to offer things wordlessly. He assumed it was due to their location. But perhaps it was something deeper.

The potential was staring him in the face.

“Do you like working here?” Takanori asked.

Yutaka chuckled, shaking his head, but what the gesture meant, exactly, he wasn’t able to tell.

“It pays the bills,” the brunette commented humorlessly, “I’m still able to live in my apartment.”

He nodded, understanding. He had taken up his own share of odd jobs to stay in his tine one-bedroom, and Kouyou and Akira had been working pretty hard to pay their shared rent.

The sounds of the diner filled their ears again. Takanori spent more time watching his cigarette burn down than actually smoking it.

“I’m guessing you know the real reason I’m here,” he said finally, flicking ashes into the ashtray, watching as a few didn’t quite make it in and fluttered to rest on the white table. His eyes trailed back up to meet Yutaka’s gaze again.

Black eyes were pensive.

“Well, I was hoping it was to tell me you still need a new drummer,” the brunette replied.

Takanori let his face darken, “We’ve needed a new drummer for awhile now.”

“What happened?” Yutaka’s words weren’t prying, simply curious.

He inhaled deeply, chewing on the inside of his lip without speaking for a long moment. His mind wandered back through the last year, and all it had contained. So much had changed, most of which angered him.

“Our original drummer… left… about a month and a half ago. His temporary replacement has overstayed his welcome.”

“No good, huh?”

“He’s… adequate.”

Yutaka winced at the word, the same way Takanori had the first time he’d described their current drummer. He smiled slightly at the thought, suddenly realizing why he had sought out this man in particular. In music, there could be no adequacy, only perfection. Takanori had strived for that very thing, was still trying to achieve it, would not stop until he reached it. And it seemed the other man understood that on some basic level, fundamentally, one could say.

Maybe it was just a feeling, maybe Takanori had lost his mind, but he liked the man sitting in front of him, felt a connection with him he wasn’t quite able to understand.

“Well, I’ll tell you now, Takanori-san,” Yutaka started, sounding a bit skeptical, “I’m not looking to be a temporary replacement for anyone. My band broke up three months ago and I’m done with being called as a fill-in.”

“We’re looking for someone permanent,” the vocalist reassured him. Yutaka nodded, folding his hands together on the table and taking a deep breath. The man was excited, but subdued, Takanori could tell, like he didn’t want to get his hopes up too soon.

And the vocalist could appreciate that. He, too, was used to having success brushing his fingertips only to have it snatched away without warning. It was why he was--they all were--so adamant about finding someone who met their standards, who could be with them for the long run.

“So…”

“So, I actually came to ask you when your next day off is. You can come to practice, meet everyone else, you can play a little, and then we’ll see. But we won’t ask you to join us if we don’t want you to stay.”

Yutaka let the words process, thinking silently. His hands had stopped tapping against the table, and he was looking at a spot on the wall above Takanori’s head. It was a long moment before he spoke again, and the vocalist felt his skin crawl with nervousness.

“Monday.”

The vocalist smiled ruefully, his hand fishing out a new cigarette and slipping it between his lips. He put the pack back into his bag, sliding out of the booth just as Yutaka was standing up. He slung the bag high onto his shoulder, the contents rattling as it hit against his hip.

“I’ll call you on Monday, then,” he commented.

The grin was back, lighting the other man’s face as he nodded. Takanori didn’t bother staying any longer. If the brunette said anything in response, he didn’t hear, simply skirted around the other and headed toward the door from which he had come inside earlier. He needed no further reassurance of Yutaka’s interest.

Despite the cold of the early March morning, a warmth was settling quite comfortably under the vocalist’s skin.


End file.
